“Mr. Clemmens, Doctor Boyd,” introduced Gail, and there was the ring of genuine pleasure in her voice. “Mr. Clemmens is one of my very best friends from back home,” and she viewed this one of her very best friends with pride as he shook hands with the Reverend Smith Boyd. He was easy of manner, was Mr. Clemmens, even confident, though he had scarcely the ease which does not need self-assertion.
“I am delighted to meet any friend of Miss Sargent,” admitted the rector, in that flowing, mellow baritone which no one heard for the first time without surprise.
“Allow me to say the same,” returned the young man from back home, making a critical and jealous inspection of the disturbingly commanding rector. His voice was brisk, staccato, and a trifle high pitched. Gail had always admired it, not for its musical quality, of course, but for its clean-cut decisiveness.
“When did you arrive?” asked Mrs. Sargent, with hospitable interest.
“Just this minute,” stated Clemmens, exchanging a glance of pleasure with Gail. “I only stopped at the hotel long enough to throw in my luggage, and drove straight on here.” He turned to her so expectantly that the rector rose.
“You’re not going?” protested Gail, and was startled to find that the Reverend Smith Boyd’s eyes were no longer blue. They were cold.
“I’m afraid that I must,” he answered her in the conventional apologetic tone, which was not at all like his singing voice. It sounded rather inflexible, and as if it might not blend very well. “I trust that I shall have the pleasure of meeting you again, Mr. Clemmens,” and he shook hands with the brisk young man in a most dignified fashion. He bowed his frigid adieus to the ladies, and marched into the hall for his hat.
“Rector?” guessed Mr. Clemmens, when the outer door had closed.
“Of Market Square Church,” proudly asserted Aunt Grace. “He is a wonderfully gifted young man. The rectory is right next door.”
“Oh yes,” responded Mr. Clemmens perfunctorily, and he turned slowly to Gail. “Fine looking chap, isn’t he?”